Hello again, folks.
As promised, here is the final part of Dyllan’s season preview. Enjoy it, as I’ve re-read the previous instalment and remembered he called me an “androgynous Chelsea-booted type” so now I may be forced to kill him sometime soon. Not in a particularly pleasant way. Chances are, I’ll bury him to his eyeballs in deep-fried Mars bars and observe as he is torn to pieces by rodents, the infirm and a slobbering Jokman.
Our extraordinary run of form alerts FIFA who send crack detective Sep Blatter to investigate Arsenal winning every game. However immediately after disembarking the plane Sepp provokes outrage by caressing the boobs of an airport wench. Attempting to defuse the situation Sepp informs the gathered media that sexism can be quickly resolved with a handjob and then blames the gays for his actions. To avoid further attention he flees to his underground Swiss lair where he is content wanking over the corpses of recently euthanized grannies. Our game against Southampton is cancelled as just before the match, Southampton sell the ground, corner flags and ball boys to a Kuwaiti Emir. We are awarded the 3 points and 4000 nectar points.
Next up are Stoke, who having sacked Mark Hughes and selected a new manager from a shortlist of Tony Pulis, Sauron, Robbie Savage and the Yorksire Ripper, are rooted firmly to the bottom of the table with -162 points. After a probably illegal thunderbastard from Gunnersaurus had given Arsenal the lead, Stoke equalised through one of their gin riddled, wife beating, dog raping sorry excuses for a prostitute slaughtering c*nt. The incident leads to widespread protests against the Arsenal board and players lead by the irrepressible duo that obviously represent all supporters, the skanky pirate fan and that delightful Gooner with the afro instead of a personality. The players, unaware of the chaos their shambolic defending has caused, go on to score another 7 in the remaining 80 minutes.
Arsenal travel to the Etihad Stadium, now branded The Shiny Council Funded Centre For Football Wage Extravagance in an unprecedented move at honesty from the Manchester shady fucks. Having entered a period of financial austerity after almost bankrupting Abu Dhabi by buying Toure 12 hectares of triple chocolate delight cake every 4 hours, the club has struggled in the league and been humiliated in Europe by the might of Dnipro Dnitoolazy tocheckthespellingofthatteamspursusuallysplay.
Outraged at not being paid his weekly allotment of 250kg of gold covered dwarven hookers, Frank Lampard returns to the shores of New York leaving City’s homegrown player requirements short, resulting in instant forfeit of the game as well as having legal requirement enforced to stop journalists referring to Kompany as ”the best defender in the league”. We finish the month with a leisurely victory over the Aston Villa, who had been forced to field their reserves since Roy Keane had crippled their first team in training after being infuriated by their “frankly ‘homo’ attitude to two footed challenges”.
Our next game is played at WHL, where the newest decoration is the skulls of recently fallen managers. Hilarity ensues when opposition fans realises this macabre pile is significantly bigger than Spurs trophy collection. Thanks to Poccehetino’s resolute commitment to comedy, Kyle Walker retains his position at RB and his faulty positioning leads to Arsenals first goal, as he inadvertently turns up at the Emirates.
The results of this game finally encourage Daniel Levy to do the right thing and put Michael Dawson to sleep. Erik Lamela is injured as stewards rugby tackle him to the ground, initially believing him to be a pitch invader. Frantic Spanish cries of “No!” lead to one of the stewards having flashbacks to his days as a cab driver and in his delirium he knocks out Aaron Lennon. Commentators laugh, pointing out the only two things Lennon can’t outrun are that steward and early onset type 2 diabetes. Arsenal then go on to beat Leicester again, which is made all the more surprising when it turns out they are actually a real team and not just a blunder in the fixtures.
Crystal Palace, buoyed by the singing of free agent Nicklas Bendtner, pose a threat at their home ground. The primary danger comes from the eagle they seemingly let roam free, as it continually dive bombs our goal in search of mice and decent conversation. Per swallows the eagle whole however before realising how poor a first impression he had gave. Dismayed he then goes out for dinner and passes food into his stomach pouch so that his feathered friend may enjoy some nourishment.
A firm friendship sprouts before developing into something more. Per’s family struggle to accept his new inter-species lover. Arsenal also win the game thanks to officials decrying that the drum wielding bastard creating “Atmosphere” was merely an intolerable prick and no team should have to suffer his out of time beating. Everton are dispatched. Roberto Martinez looks resplendent in a fetching club scarf and cocktail dress.
We then slaughter the expensively assembled cast of pensioners and ex Spurs rejects at Queens Park Rangers, a team presumably made by a football obsessed autistic frantically trying to recreate The Avengers. Play is delayed when Joey Barton is lost in the rapidly sagging embrace of Redknapp. Following this incident Harry is cast as Jabba The Hut in the new Star Wars movies which he immediately demands are filmed on Neptune for tax purposes.
The challenge of West Ham then awaits, with Big Sam having successfully taken football back to Neolithic times by fielding all 11 players as goalkeepers and demanding they simply try to punt the ball into the other net. This innovative and frankly useless approach had resulted in numerous death threats for Sam and no points, a situation which he later described as “a period where it was hard to quantify exactly how little of a sh*t I gave”.
Half time is extended so Stewart Downing can get his recommended daily amount of domestic abuse completed. After the heavy loss Big Sam redeems himself by calling Mourinho “a foreign c*nt”. We then vanquish Newcastle but with Pardew having been sacked long ago nothing even vaguely noteworthy happens as Arsenal romp to a convincing victory.
Brenden Rodgers is confident about facing us as he is fresh from his holiday breaking into nursing homes, sh*tting in the beds and frantically masturbating as the elderly residents are disciplined. Unfortunately for him, Daniel Sturridge is contractually obliged by Subway to eat 19 jalapenos per second. This gives him the tragically hilarious ‘My Piss Is Made Of Fire’ syndrome and means his footballing career is sadly cut short. Deprived of their only actual player Liverpool crumble into a meaningless chant of “5 times” which is coincidentally the number of step sisters Steven Gerrard will need to sexually abuse before the police bother to make an arrest.
Burnley, having had all their men slaughtered when siding with House Stark, are unable to field a team resulting in a forfeit. Sunderland become the first team to physically drown in their own mediocrity. Black armbands are worn during the next game to remember the 25,000 killed at the Stadium of Light. Chelsea arrive at the Emirates ready to enact revenge on the Gunners for embarrassing the plastics at Stamford Bridge.
Things spice up pre game as GunnerSaurus stalks Ivanovic during Chelsea’s warm up, repeatedly asking him what his dad got up to during the Balkans War. Rosicky and Flamini spend most of the first half throwing matches at Fabregas ‘FOR THE BANTZ’. Play is disrupted when Cech, frustrated at being replaced by Courtois sneaks up behind him and releases the patented Mourinho eye poke. The pair is separated by stewards who inform them that the Emirates is no place for such passion. Mourinho sits at the side, cheerily flicking through pictures of crumbled buildings and awkwardly trying to hide his raging erection. Arsenal go on to win 7-1 with Drogba obviously scoring their consolation. Szczesny informs Drogba that it’s no consolation for the fact that his mum wishes she had swallowed
Hull City are forced to hand over their points to us as instructed by the FA for their cup defeat whilst Swansea City are swatted away like the filthy whores that they are. That explanation pleases me, not least because it means that their new signing Gylfi Thor(actually his name) Sydurdsson will be upset. His spurs background and uneven facial symmetry can cause anguish in even the most hardened of men.
Arsenal then play United at Old Trafford. By this time Alex Ferguson had swept in to rescue United from their Van Gall inflicted misery, attacking the Dutchman with spittle enhanced insults and a broken wine bottle. His first action as reinstated manager was to strip Rooney of the captaincy, a decision that Rooney described as “sad sad in my tum tum”. Spurned by this decision Rooney submits his 18th transfer request only for United to cave in to his demands. 4kg of gold and raw meat must be placed before Rooney every time he sneezes as well as a basic weekly wage of 4 islands of at least 6 hectares.
With his cash lust sated, Rooney scores the opener against the Gunners. During the celebrations Steve Bould grows infuriated and starts eye balling Giggs. Arsenal equalise with 10 minutes left through Walcott who forgets to stop sprinting after his shot and collides with the support, killing 12. Ryo Miyaichi comes off the bench to take his place and latches onto a well-placed pass before winning it right at the death for Arsenal (I was going to write about falcons, bestiality, midget rhinos with crippling meth addictions and Bould decapitating Giggs at that point but I thought the Ryo section was more surreal).
The United fanbase are so stunned by this turn of events that the inhalation of breath at the moment we score is fierce enough to rupture a hole in space and time, pulling the United fans into a great vacuum of nothingness. Arsene allows himself a small grin and bottle of tequila at this moment.
The final game of the season is against West Brom at home, a game we initially struggle in as almost all of our squad are shitfaced from the title celebrations. We are pulled through by Mesut Özil, who had not partaken of alcoholic refreshment due to his faith, and the fact that a highly intoxicated Matheiu Flamini knocked out 4 of their players before curling himself in a banner and going for a little snooze. Our celebrations are only enhanced when it is revealed that, despite their early title aspirations, Spurs are relegated with a total of 8 points. The celebrations are so loud and fireworks so intense, France initially thinks that war has been declared and prepares itself for the upcoming nuclear holocaust.
The Daily Mail takes advantage of the last opportunity it has, blaming Arsenal for immigrants, house prices and the apocalypse. It should be noted though, that a world without Mourinho is a better world so don’t be disheartened and celebrate Arsenal’s most glorious achievement, Premier League Winners without dropping a point.
You can be assured that this is what will happen in the upcoming season as I once correctly guessed the number of fingers a friend was holding up behind their back and have extensively researched this topic so thoroughly I have now found out that Leicester is in fact not only a football team but also a place. Remarkable.
Feel free to chat, love or loath me at @GoonerDyllan and remember to thank James “Chieftain of the Fannybandits” Stokes for hosting this on his site. Write articles more often you sexually deviant, Bristolian f*cknugget